There and Back
by MizuTattoo
Summary: God left Joan when she was seventeen. Eleven years later, he returned. ONE-SHOT.


A/N – Obviously I don't own _Joan of Arcadia._

There and Back

God left when Joan was seventeen.

It left an ache that festered within her.

When she broke her arm, it felt like she would never use it again, never be normal. It sucked trying to shower and scratch hard to reach places in the cast. Joan realized that she had taken that left arm for granted. Sure, she could still write and function, but life was a bummer without it.

But months later the cast was off and the misery of the past was just that : passed.

It was the same with God.

For a couple of years, it was like she had lost a limb. Or, like Kevin, the ability to walk. Things were harder to figure out. What would God want her to do?

She began to do bad things. She experimented with drugs, slept around, hurt those who cared about her, tried to do everything to make him reappear and chastise her.

But like the arm, things healed.

Joan remembered his lessons, started to act like he knew what she was doing. Because, of course, he did. She found steady ground. And, as before, she was stronger afterwards.

And then God came to Joan again when she was twenty eight.

"Hello, Joan."

Joan had been slow on the uptake the first time, but not now. She felt like she should feel sorrow or anger, but there was none of that. Not like the rage she had felt when he left her.

No, she amended, not left. He was, and always would be, with her.

"Cute? You're cute?"

He smiled, and as always it left her with a crush.

"I appear as you want me to appear, Joan."

His gentle, cryptic teasing filled her with relief. Sure, she had rediscovered prayer after sobering up, but to actually _talk_ to him was . . .

"Still not a straight answer," Joan shot back. It was an automatic smart-ass response, and it was like she was fifteen again. She wanted to sob with happiness.

"Sorry," she wiped her eyes, and was amazed that she was crying. She didn't think it possible now. "I think I might have missed you."

"But Joan, I didn't go anywhere."

She knew that _now_, but before, when she was so young . . .it felt like abandonment.

"Yeah, yeah, _omniscient_," Joan said. She smiled.

"Maybe I missed you, too," He said, and threaded his arm through hers. They began to walk.

"Am I going to see only one set of footprints ?" she asked, and God laughed. He seemed so carefree now, less uptight. Or maybe it was because he was done teaching her lessons. It reminded her of when she was twenty-two, and her parents were cursing in the kitchen with the family on Thanksgiving after too much wine. It made her feel equal.

But, no, this was _God_. Even now, there was no way she could be equal.

"Joan, I created you out of me. Of course we're equal."

Joan sighed. "All-knowing."

He bumped their shoulders.

"Do you want to talk?" he murmured, and there was no condescension or biting wit like when she was a teenager.

"Why bother?" she said with a shrug, "you already know what I'm going to say."

He paused, and they sat down on a bench. They were in front of her old high school, and they both watched the students milling about for a moment.

"Of course," he answered slowly, "but that doesn't change anything."

Joan felt a roll of her eyes coming up, but quelled the feeling. She wasn't a teenager anymore, after all.

"Am I missing anything spectacular?" she finally decided to ask. Even then, it felt like a hollow sentiment. Joan was happy, but it still felt like she was going through the motions, like she had been transported to her hormonal teenage self. She didn't particularly like it. She just wanted to accept her joy now.

They leaned back in unison and God put his arm around her.

"It's okay to feel a little disappointed, Joan."

She rested her head on his shoulder and didn't say anything for a few minutes. At least, she thought it was a few minutes.

"There were things . . . but I feel happy. I'm just worried about my family, my husband . . ."

"Everyone deals with tragedy, Joan."

She declined to respond, instead closing her eyes.

She saw again the accident, heard the sound of steel buckling around her, the crushing weight.

"I missed you," she repeated, and she heard the fond huff God made.

"Missed you, too, Joan. Missed you, too."


End file.
